


Your Little Deerling

by TheHuggamugCafe



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Attempted manipulation, Child!Alastor, F/M, Heavily Implied Murder, Overlord!Reader, Past Lives, Reader is kinda a yandere tbh, Reader-Insert, Reader’s Shadow, Redeemed!Alastor, Redemption is possible in this AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28850259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe
Summary: You knew you would meet him again.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Your Little Deerling

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t seen any fics where Alastor is the sane one and Reader is the balls on the wall insane Overlord, so here I am.
> 
> I wanted to give Overlord!Reader a shot and I thought what better way to attempt this than with a role reversal AU?
> 
> Please let me know what you, dear reader, think of this.
> 
> A teasing glimpse of Reader’s shadow, and her reaction at the ending, will be in the notes at the end.
> 
> I will consider continuing this as a short fic, provided the interest is there.
> 
> A big and most welcomed shout-out goes to my marvellous friend, DragonsInkwell (Lafrenze), for giggling about this AU with yours truly off and on. If you haven’t checked her out yet, I encourage you to do so!
> 
> Lastly, I _still_ do not own the name Alistair McCarthy. All of the credit and none of the blame goes to BambinaMio, author of The Man Who Put New Orleans To Rest.
> 
> Edit: I have decided to make this a short fic, as I promised I would if anyone was interested. Look forward to chapter 2 in the next few days! Thanks so much for the kudos, bookmarks, and comments for this idea; it means a lot to an awkward bean like myself.

The saccharine scent of butter and baked cookies wafting in through the open window of his bedroom, through the open doorway and window of the kitchen, is more than enough for his attention to be torn away from his toys. The red fire truck and little plastic firemen are his favourite toys, gifted to him by his grandfather on his birthday, but even they don’t hold a candle to his mother’s baking, matched—and even bested at times, he’d think—by his grandmother’s home cooking. But he loves his mother too much to tell her that, of course.

He, a mischievous five year old with brunet hair and dark eyes, can feel his sweet tooth being tickled, as though it’s being teased by an invisible finger. He rolls on his back, having laid on his belly to indulge his childish whims with his playthings in the sanctuary of his room. Rather, it’s “his” whenever he and his cousins visit Nan and Pop, which is quite often, considering summer break is right around the corner. His name _is_ pinned to the mahogany door in letters, looking like they’d been dipped in dye of his favourite colour: red.

His childish personality demands him to stay here, to play with toys and giggle at the coyote chasing a roadrunner on the small screen TV that his Pop helped set up for him, and his cousins, to watch shows and child-friendly movies, but his sweet tooth—and his stomach, consistently grumbling—cries out for his mother’s cookies. Oh, he hopes she baked chocolate chip cookies this time! They were his favourite. She had promised him a batch if he was on his best behaviour while visiting Nan and Pop, and he had obeyed her instructions, heeded them as though they were words straight out of the Bible.

He hops up, quickly abandoning his toys, leaving them on the rug in a colourful cluster and walks to the door. A small palm and five tiny fingers wrap around the knob, turning it and pulling the door open. He revels in the cool draft whispering in through his parents’ bedroom, but closes his room door quietly, just as he’s been told to do several times by his mother. He’s on autopilot; his grumbling stomach is what guides him. He walks to the second floor landing, ready to grip the banister and make his way down the steps, and walk into the kitchen.

However… A peculiar noise stops him and he stands, rather comically, freezing in place on the staircase, his attention piquing sharply as he glances in the direction where the noise seems to be coming from. He thinks he hears his mother calling his name, but for the first time in his young life, he ignores his mother’s voice and turns about-face, staring down the hallway that takes a sharp right. Lips pursed, hesitation rockets through him before finally, _finally_ , humanity’s natural poison is injected into his veins: curiosity.

Curiosity is what lures him away from the staircase. Curiosity is what makes his tiny feet cross over the carpeted floor, and curiosity is what makes him take a sharp right, glancing around the moment he turns the corner.

_Wait, is… Is someone else upstairs? But there should be no one else up here but me!_

That is what he thinks as he stops to listen, his attention piqued sharply as he stands still, as still as though someone has pressed a pause button, stopping all activity across the world. He waits, frozen in place; he swears he feels his ears twitch attentively at one point, but that’s just silly. This isn’t a Saturday cartoon, and he isn’t a certain bunny with a penchant for tricks; this is reality.

Finally, he clues in on what he’s hearing: music. It doesn’t sound anything at all like what he’s used to hearing; it’s too old-fashioned, too upbeat, even by the standards of today’s music. He looks to where the music is coming from, spotting the ladder leading up to the attic, somewhere he’s been told time and time again to never go by himself. He could get hurt, after all.

Perhaps Pop had been up there and had forgotten to close the attic door? He remembers Nan asking him to fetch the family photo album just before lunch, come to think of it… Apparently, Nan wanted to show the grandchildren pictures of her brother, a granduncle they never had the privilege of knowing. She spoke little of him, and said even _less_ about what he did for work, but he picked up on the typical fondness siblings generally had for each other in her voice, in her eyes as she stared off at a point in the past, a place he nor anyone else but her could hope to see…

Back in the present, however, even if he _could_ get hurt, and even _if_ he’s not allowed to go up there by himself, there’s a part of him that’s intrigued. He can at least go to check where the music is coming from and shut it off if he finds it, right? The adults didn’t have to know, and he would be quick _._ Besides, his young and gullible mind assured him, he would be back down to the second floor before anyone, especially his mother, knew that he broke such an important rule.

_If anyone asks, all you have to say is that you came out of your room, and saw that the attic ladder was down, but that you never went up there. It’s a lie, but… Nobody has to know about that, mother least of all…_

It is with that thought that he puts his foot on the ladder, wincing at the groaning creak it gave off when his small heel touched it; his tiny hands grip the handrail for leverage. He swallows; the gulp is thick. It catches in his esophagus like a wad of glue, sticking in place as an anxious sweat begins to break out over his forehead, making his hands damp with moisture. Quietly, he blames it on the unusually warm May weather, wiping a hand on his jogging pants the moment his little head of hair peeks up over the attic’s entrance.

As he thought, it’s dusty up here in the attic. _Very_ dusty, in fact. He can see it dancing in through the window on his left, a window that looks like it hasn’t been washed in _ages_ , hanging in the sunlight like a shawl cloaks someone’s shoulders. It’s a stark contrast to his Nan’s cleaning that bordered on an obsessive-compulsive habit. She insisted on not letting her daughter, her in-laws, her grandchildren, or any visitors step foot inside until every surface shone with a mirror polish, and that not a speck of dirt could be caught by her critical, wrinkled glare. Maybe Nan simply hasn’t found the time or felt the need to come up here to clean? He isn’t sure; he feels he shouldn’t ask. Plus, how would he know the state of the attic when he wasn’t allowed up there? His Nan may be old, but her mind’s as sharp as ever; she’d catch on that he knew something he shouldn’t.

The floorboards creak and groan as he gingerly steps around, using the sunlight pouring in from the window as a light source to help navigate his way through uncharted territory. Silhouettes and the occasional odd knick-knack here and there makes him on edge, but he soldiers onward, mind set on silencing the source of the music. He hitches in a breath when he bumps into a mannequin, bolstering a dress that he recognizes from his grandparents’ photos when they were teenagers. There’s a shuffle as his foot hits something heavy, and he glances down, relieved that it’s just a trunk. Curiosity bites him like a fire ant, and though he wonders about what it may possibly contain, the thought is quickly brushed aside, like dust is swept underneath a rug. Out of sight, out of mind. He isn’t here to poke around; he has to shut off the music. Come to think of it, he should have used the music as a sign of where he needs to be going. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

Silently grumbling at his idiocy, he manoeuvres his way around stacks of newspapers that have yellowed with age, coat stands, and ducking underneath cobwebs that stubbornly cling to the rafters, to the odd little trinkets that catch his eye, and often. The more he shuffled his way through the attic, the darker it becomes, and the lack of sunlight makes the damp sweat on his hands turn icy, complimenting the gooseflesh curdling his bare arms. His heart beats in his chest like a drum, swallowing thickly as he nears the very back of the attic.

It’s a bit more spacious back here, surprisingly. There’s no risk of him tripping on or over anything. The bonus for him is that he’s finally located the source of the music. A radio. It’s bulky appearance is like a newly discovered wonder of the world to him, bug-eyed and ogling, exhaling sharply. He takes baby steps until he’s closer to the antique, reaching forward with a small hand to touch one of the radio dials, fully intending to turn it off.

The second his small fingers touch a radio dial, however, is when a soft screech of static is emitted through the radio’s speakers. He lets out a boyish yelp, falling back and hitting the floor with a soft thump. Confusion replaces the curiosity he’d been feeling mere moments ago, blinking owlishly as he tilts his head to the left, trying to put together what just happened.

This is certainly interesting. Scary, sure, but interesting. Did radios do that? Perhaps it was broken? If so, why did Nan or Pop never bother to throw it out if it doesn’t work anymore? Too attached to the radio, he guessed, pursing his lips as he stood up, dusting himself off.

 _It’s a radio!_ His mind screams at him. _You’re scared of a radio; aren’t you old enough not to be scared by radios? It can’t hurt you, stupid, so grow up! You’re going to be_ _ **six**_ _soon!_

He’s still gathering his young wits, eyes bouncing around erratically around in the darkness broken by a dim glare of sunlight, looking for something— _anything_ —to prod the big radio with. Suddenly, he thinks back to before Easter break, when he had been frightened by one of the neighbour’s dogs. It reminds him of how he feels now. Observed, watched, like an animal trapped in a kennel, or an attraction at that surprise trip to the zoo the adults had dropped into his and his cousins’ laps a few days ago. “For good behaviour,” was the reason they gave.

It makes him feel like a _freak_. It makes him feel like he’s a source of someone’s weird sense of fun… It’s a feeling he _hates_ , it’s an emotion he _fears_ , though he can’t quite understand why he feels this way. His little tongue peeks out, licking at his lips (they aren’t trembling and he’s _not_ scared. The dumb radio just… caught him by surprise, that’s all!) to give them proper moisture. Maybe… Maybe if he plays off as not being afraid, if he shows that he’s not scared of _anything_ , whatever is causing this uneasy feeling will leave him alone?

“Hey! Uh, you there, radio!” he says, pointing a stubby index finger at the stationary device for good measure. “I… I know there’s something weird about you, so you have to be quiet now! And, and you can’t scare me, so don’t even try it!”

A bold claim to make he supposed, but for the most part, he had been truthful: he wasn’t scared. He _wasn’t_ scared of _anything_ ; boys _couldn’t_ show fear, no matter what. Being an avid hunter, his Pop always, always told him that a predator will—and _can_ —smell fear from its prey.

“ _Don’t show you’re afraid, boy. Wolves, bears, anything that might think you’ll make a tasty snack, they’ll pick up on it.”_

As it turned out, his grandfather was spot on. The five year old knew his grandfather was a wise old soul because of the static-laced giggle that came from the radio, reminding him of the black and white shows his grandparents loved to watch late at night, when they thought he and everyone else was asleep, lost in their dreams and tucked under warm covers.

“Oh, wandering little child, straying from the safe path by your curiosity,” A voice, one he doesn’t recognize, filters through the radio, sparking with static, but still very coherent and clear despite the noise. It’s a woman’s voice. “Did your father ever tell you that it’s not polite to lie, and tell such obvious falsehoods at that? If you are to spin me a yarn, do tell me an amusing one at the very least, won’t you?”

If he wasn’t frozen where he stood, he would have turned and ran for his life, booked it out of the dusty attic. If his throat didn’t feel like it was caught by a boa constrictor, he would have surely screamed, or released a pitiful little whimper at the very least. But he stands there, shocked, still pointing his index finger at the still appliance.

A noise replies to his silence, a hum of intrigue that is quickly followed by a simpering laugh. It reminds him of the way his mother would sometimes laugh, covering up her beautiful giggles behind her hand. “Well? Where is your false bravery now, hm, little one? Or has my presence robbed the ability to speak from you? A shame. I quite enjoyed you stroking your meek ego.”

“I… I—” A stammer. He’s _stammering_. _Quick_ , his mind screams at him, _say something! Anything! Prove this… Radio ghost is wrong!_ “I, um,” he mutters, slowly dropping the pointing digit; it’s rude to point, after all. What was the number one rule his mother and father, his aunts and uncles, drilled into him and his cousins to make themselves safe on the walk to school in the mornings? “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, ma’am.”

Another chuckle is his reward. There’s a grin in the woman’s voice; he can practically _hear it_. She makes no secret that she’s amused by him. “Is that so? What a cautious child you are.” Is he seriously being watched… by a _ghost_ in his Pop’s old radio? That’s silly! But… But here is he, standing in an attic that’s likely never seen soap or a rag reeking of some cleaning solution, and the radio is right in front of him. He’s… not dreaming, is he? For all he knows, he could very well have fallen asleep in his bedroom, still surrounded by his colourful toys. “Ah, I know! What if we introduce ourselves? My name for your name? I will not be a stranger to you then, will I?”

His first instinct is to say no. He should tell her—tell _you_ —that you’re wrong, that that’s not how it works, but… Isn’t that how it works in school? He’s introduced himself plenty of times to other children in the past at the start of the school year, and while he might not have befriended some of them, he still knows them. So… He can’t totally say that you don’t have a point, can he?

Still, all he can muster is a few quick nods, earning what sounds like a few hearty claps. “Oh, how lovely; I’m so glad you agree! Well then, I suppose I’ll start, shall I?” You’re quick to give your name, and he finds himself muttering it a few times, his voice rising until he’s speaking at the normal volume. He finds that he likes the way your name rolls off of his tongue, he likes the way it sounds when he utters it, smiling sheepishly all the while. Maybe… Maybe you’re not a bad ghost? After all, bad ghosts can’t have names that sound lovely to say or pleasing to the ears, can they? “Now, what is your name, little one?”

He hesitates, and he almost wishes he could muster the strength to shrink back, but he does the opposite: he straightens himself, brushing imaginary dust off of his shoulders, and puffs his chest out. He can do this. It’s a simple exchange; a name for a name. It’s not like he’s doing anything _bad_ , is he? He’s just giving you his name… His mother would be disappointed with him if he wasn’t being polite with someone, even if that someone was a ghost trapped in a radio.

But his lack of a response is apparently not enough for you, judging by the huff you breathe. He wonders for a moment if ghosts even _need_ air at all… “Come now, child, don’t be a wet blanket.”

The outdated term is lost to him, but he takes in, and expels, a deep breath to steady himself. “Alistair. My name is Alistair McCarthy, ma’am.” He’s as happy as he is surprised that he managed to introduce himself without stuttering, and he half-expects to be gifted with a gold star just for that alone.

However…

“…Ma’am?” No response. He voices your name in a questioning manner, but the result is as he expects it to be: silence. The static is quiet, soft, almost nonexistent. Finally, _finally_ , you speak, echoing his name in a way that reminds him of his mother addressing him.

“Alistair McCarthy…” There is a crystal clear note of affection in your voice, and you sound _almost_ like you’re struggling to speak, but it doesn’t last. “…A wonderful name… for an adorable boy like you.” You pause, falling silent for another moment that seems like forever to him, but then you’ve perked right up. There’s that smile in your words as you speak. “I know someone who shares your name, young Alistair.”

“Oh? Your friend has my name? Really?” Excitement laces his words as he steps forward, eager to hear more about this friend of yours. This time, the laugh he earns from you is like an imp’s, airy and reeking of mischief. “Oh no, no, goodness no, Alistair! I would not quite call him a ‘friend’ of mine… He’s… Ah, how do I explain it…? He is… very important to me. I thought I’d hear his name in this house at times, and I grew curious. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I miss him dearly…”

Alistair’s lips purse to a frown, edging closer, eyes affixed to the radio, its face plate aglow as static gently ripples through the dust-ridden air. You had lost a friend? That’s horrible! As someone who knows how awful it is to lose a friend, be it parting on poor terms or that friend moving away, the five year old boy believes that there’s no experience worse than losing a friend.

“Is he a ghost like you?” Your downtrodden tone perks up at this question; there’s no gloom in your words as you voice them. It seems as though asking about him, about your friend, has brightened your mood considerably. “Ha ha ha, heavens no, child! He is as human as you are! And with a heart as good as gold! Why, you’d think him to be an angel from Heaven! Even after all the time I’ve known him, he’s never failed to keep me on my toes!”

Ohhh, he sounds so cool already! Alistair can’t wait to meet this man, the one who shares his name. Actually… And just like that, a lit bulb may as well have appeared above the boy’s head; a grin laces his lips, smiling widely. “My, what a beautiful smile you’ve dressed yourself up in! May I ask what you’re thinking about, Alistair?”

He speaks your name, uttering it in a questioning manner; he earns a curious hum from you. “Do you… do you think I could meet him? This Alistair that you know? I’d really like to!”

You laugh, but this time, it doesn’t uplift him. It does the exact opposite. For a moment and only a moment, the bright grin threatens to droop as the string of giggles that erupt from the radio make him feel uneasy, like you know something that he doesn’t. “Oh, sweet child, that would be a show I’d love to see! You and him meeting would truly entertain me!”

That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? He would get to meet this Alistair that you know and so would you, so… Why does he feel so anxious? Why does he feel like he’s in danger right now, in a house where he’s never had any reason to be afraid of anyone or anything?

Why does he feel like he’s the star of some obscene television show?

Some part of him, some primal half of him is screaming: leave, _leave_ , _**leave**_. But he’s frozen solid like an ice sculpture sitting atop a mound of snow. He can’t— _won’t_ —move for all that he’s trying to leave. It feels like gnarly roots have burst from the wooden floor of the attic, wrapping around his little calves to prevent him from budging where he stands, his face ashen and his eyes nearly bugging from their sockets.

“Alistair… Are you alright, little one? You’re awfully silent…”

He’s never heard your voice before in his life. He _knows_ he hasn’t, but… He feels like he’s heard it from somewhere, but he can’t recall when or where—

_A light glaring down at him. A play of light and shadow dancing up and down as the light bulb swung back and forth; a similar scene was conducted across his body. His tongue felt as dry as desert air as it flicked out, licking at his lips._

_The sensation of cold steel around his wrists made him glance left, then right; he was strapped to a table. He jerked about, kicking his legs, but it was in vain; they were restrained as well._

_A room flashed in his mind. A sink, a table set for two, lit candles glowing dimly, the scent of cooked food hung in the air: a kitchen. He had been in a kitchen minutes ago, but_ … _Another aroma was shoved up his nose. It reminded him of his mother’s perfume; it was sweet, almost sickeningly so. It was a scent he was sure he’d never smelled before, but… But maybe if he focused hard enough, he could identify—_

“ _Are you awake?”_

 _Tension possessed him as his eyes stared ahead in the bleak darkness. He recognized that voice. How could he_ _**not**_ _? It was—_

“ _Ah, so you are aware of the situation. You know it’s pointless to pretend to still be asleep; I can hear you breathing, my love. You weren’t like that five minutes ago… You looked so peaceful when you were out too, sleeping without a single care in the world; it really is a shame I couldn’t enjoy the sight a bit longer.”_

_The speaker was a she, a woman, but… Why was this happening to him? Why was he tied down? She addressed him with a clear fondness; how close was he to her? A figure stepped forward, the wood creaking with every step she took. She stopped when she was a few feet away from him, holding up a storm lantern._

_Even with the illumination, he couldn’t make out her face; just a mockery of a smile curling her lips, tilting her head so that she was studying him at an angle. All he could distinguish was the clothing she wore. They were old-fashioned, but they had a certain charm; her taste in attire suited her surprisingly well._

“ _I’m terribly sorry for ruining an evening as pleasant as this one… I wish I didn’t have to do this, but with Daddy gone, I… I…”_

_Her voice quivered as she talked, lips shaking as she paused to take in a slow, deep breath. The glow from the storm lantern illuminated him as she stepped closer, setting the object made of glass and iron on a table on his left._

“ _I can’t bear the thought of you leaving me… I won’t let you leave me like Daddy did. If you are to leave this world, it’s best done by my hands. Do not fret, my darling; I will give you a proper homemade parting. Oh, but don’t worry. I’ve already picked out the perfect way to commemorate this evening! That spot above the fireplace will be just marvellous, and you do have a spare plaque for those hunting trophies you collect; your head will adorn that from now on! I’ll always look at you and you’ll look back at me! Just as it’s been since I met you; death shouldn’t put a stop to that, should it? Doesn’t that sound romantic~?” She stopped, breathing an airy giggle as she reached for something in the darkness._

_When she pulled her hands back, an edge full of jagged steel teeth reflected his expression; in the soft glare of the lit lantern, his eyes showed panic and fear. A hacksaw. The saw’s teeth were a perfect companion to her own, smiling down at him so sweetly as she bent down to whisper tenderly in his ear. She held the saw in one hand as a free one went up to stroke his brunet locks slowly._

_All he felt was a mockery of affection in the action, despite the way she looked at him like he was her prized possession._

“ _Happy anniversary, my dear Alistair.”_

“Alistair, are you alright…? You’ve been quiet for some time, little one.”

Your voice snaps him out his stupor, blinking several times as he slowly takes in his surroundings. The sunlight is still shining in through a window back a ways from where he stands and the air in the attic is heavy, but he’s freezing. He’s so cold he wonders if he’ll simply die from the sudden chills that possess him; he breathes in what feels like a lifetime’s worth of dust, the action successfully ripping a series of coughs from the boy.

“Oh my~. You’re looking a bit _choked up_ there, child!” For the second time since he’s come across the radio, your static-laced giggles fills the dusty atmosphere of the attic. The dark humour that threads your voice, your laughter tapering off into short chuckles, doesn’t go unnoticed by him; he doesn’t find it to be an amusing matter, much less something to laugh at. He splutters once he’s calmed down, pointing a scowl at you—more specifically, the radio you’ve taken residence up in—as he corrects his posture.

He pushes the round spectacles sitting on his nose up, breathing a huff as he leers at the radio.

“It’s not funny!” He tries to sound intimidating, but the snarl comes off as more of a whine as it leaves his pouting lips. His reaction is merely fuel for the fire of twisted delight that you’re showing; you make no effort to hide that you’re entertained, so very enthralled by him.

“Come now, Alistair. It’s merely a joke; no need to be such a bluenose.”

Once again, the outdated term is lost to him, but it doesn’t stop him from frowning. It’s childish and he’s acting his age, but a part of him still feels silly for crossing his arms and breathing an indignant huff.

“Ah…” The surprise in your voice is unmistakable. You know it and he knows it, and he has the strangest of feelings that you’re _letting him_ know that you’re pleasantly taken aback, if only slightly. “…There… There you are again…” You sound almost _lovey-dovey_. You exhale a whimsical sigh. “You remind me so much of my darling, little one.”

He forgets his irritation for a spell, settling for voicing a curious hum as he uncrosses his arms. Oh right, you did say something like that earlier, didn’t you? That you think of the one you’ve been looking for when you look at him. This other “Alistair” that you know.

There’s a flash of pink as his tongue peeks out to wet his lips. He smacks his mouth in thought, swallowing the emotion that makes his throat tighten: trepidation. _Fear_ is the phantom hand that smacks him across the face, all without the sting of pain crawling over his round cheek as a result of a palm unjustly connecting with his skin.

“I, um…” Truthfully, he feels like he shouldn’t be thinking of offering help to a stranger, much less a ghost inhabiting an antique radio. But… But… You’ve been nice to him so far, haven’t you? And… And… His mother always told him that kindness should be rewarded, right?

Right?

So why does he feel like he’s going to regret this decision? But even _this_ isn’t enough to stop him from opening his mouth. The words roll off of his tongue before he can stop himself, before he can think to stop himself from wondering if this is a good call to make.

“I can help you look for him? If… If it’s okay with you?”

The excited giggle that leaves the radio sends a strong chill down his back, stabbing the curve of his spine with icy needles. He’s able to will back a shudder that tries to wrestle hold of his lithe shoulders, _barely_. “Oh, you’re offering to help me find my lost love? How kind of you, Alistair~.” You fall silent for a few moment, but the silence is quickly broken by a thoughtful hum from you. “But… Do you _promise_? Promise to help me find him? I’d want to believe you…”

“Promise…?” His mother and grandmother have told him never to make promises, unless he intends on keeping his end of them. Tension grips him in a hold that’s almost _suffocating_. Is he promising to help a _ghost_ find someone she’s been looking for? He swallows thickly. “I… I—”

“Alistair… You’re not lying to me, are you.”

Your voice reminds him far too much of the tone the adults use against him, against his cousins when they’re misbehaving. And how many times has he been given the “fire and brimstone” speech by his religious relatives? Liars go to Hell, don’t they? “N-No, I’m not lying! I swear!”

Silence is your answer. Always a bad sign. Silence always follows the adults before the start of a lecture, a brief scolding on what he or his cousins did wrong. Finally, _finally_ , when he can stand it longer, when he feels like he should apologize for upsetting you is when static-laced laughter emits from the radio’s speakers.

“I’m only kidding~. No need to take a joke so seriously!”

Your chuckles are strangely soothing to him this time… Still, his response to your earlier question of offering you help for finding him, the other Alistair that you know, rings clear and true in his mind. He can do nothing but bob his head, assuring you with a smile that he’ll help you however he can.

“Oh!” A round of applause comes from you, bringing your hands together in a clap. “You truly are a sweetheart, little Alistair!”

He breathes a laugh, raising a hand to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly. A tickle of heat burning his cheeks tells him that he’s blushing, much to his silent chagrin. “Yeah! I promise to help you! Count on it!”

“A deal it is! Shall we shake on it?”

It occurs to him to wonder just _how_ can a ghost have hands to touch anything, much less shake hands with, but he exhales a sharp gasp, stepping back as a shadow-y arm shoots out of the radio. He watches it warily, eyeing the way it moves about in the dusty air before it stops, uncurling its hand and fingers. From behind the round spectacles sitting on his nose, his brown eyes never leave the hand.

It’s visible but not tangible, not completely; it doesn’t block out the sunlight. His hand twitches, fingers jerking oddly as the silhouette-like limb dips down to hover at eye-level with him. A lump forms at the back of his throat, stubbornly sticking to his esophagus as he swallows.

It’s… It’s _just_ a simple handshake, right?

His hand moves, slowly.

He’s made several promises with his friends at school, hasn’t he?

His heart is beating fast, so fast that he wonders if it’ll comically stick out of his chest. Much like what happens on his favourite cartoon shows…

He is simply keeping a promise, right? _Right?_ So why… Why does he feel like he’s doing something _bad_? He hesitates for but a moment, his stubby little fingers just inches shy of touching the inky digits that are lazily dangling in the air.

_No…_

He slows to a full-on stop, freezing while looking up at the black hand that’s protruding from the radio.

_Don’t do this…_

“Alistair…?”

Your voice calls his attention; his warm gaze stares at the radio. His teeth worry over his bottom lip, gently digging into the plump flesh it finds there. He wants to step back, he _should_ step back. He should get away, get out of this attic before he gets in trouble. His mother must be wondering what’s taking him so long to come downstairs, and he shouldn’t make her worry—

“Are you going back on your promise?”

The words almost make him want to slap his hand into the shadow’s, but he resists the temptation. He… He… He _promised_ that he’ll help you look for the Alistair that you know, didn’t he? _Didn’t he?_

“I…”

“Allie?”

Nan’s voice makes him jostle free of his stupor, wrenching his attention away from the radio and the outstretched hand to look at her, bug-eyed. She stands in her typical granny clothes and an apron, smelling of spices as she looks at him, bewildered.

“What are you doing up here, sweetheart?”

Is it just him or does she sound almost relieved?

He shakes his head, blinking owlishly as he opens his mouth to speak. He spares a quick second to look back at the radio, but much to his surprise and confusion, there’s no shadow-y hand sticking out of the radio. Did he dream that whole thing up? His small hand drops to hang at his side as he flushes, but in embarrassment of being caught somewhere he had no business being. “I, um… I heard music, Nana.” There’s no point in lying to his grandmother. As young as he is, even he knows that only a fool tries to fib to his Nan.

“Music?” Her wrinkled hands worry against her apron, patting it down as she looks at him with a frown. The round black-framed spectacles that sit on her nose shine dimly, thanks to the sunlight streaming in through the grime caked window on her left. She looks around the attic with an expression that he can only describe as wary. Nothing is missed by her observant glare, but it’s only when her eyes land on the radio that’s fallen strangely silent is when her reaction confuses him.

“Nana?”

The elderly lady says nothing as she gently nudges her youngest grandchild to stand behind her, as though she’s trying to protect him from… _something_. He notices that she’s looking at nothing but the radio resting on the end table right in front of them. He’ll be labelled a liar if he says that her reaction is out of the ordinary even for her, someone who was like a mama bear shielding her cubs from a perceived threat.

“…Come on, darling. Your mother’s wondering what’s taking you so long.” Finally, her voice breaks the silence as she turns her attention down to him. “You don’t want your cousins to gobble up all the cookies now, do you?”

His grumbling stomach is all the answer she needs. He smiles as she breathes a sweet little laugh, taking his hand in hers as she leads him to the attic’s open hatch door.

A feeling nags at him as the smell of baked cookies tickles his nose.

Relief.

**Author's Note:**

> That witch. That despicable she-devil of a _witch!_ You almost had him and she interfered! A smile still curls your lips, but it strains, twitching at the edges and revealing more of your teeth. The air surrounding you crackles with static and your room glitches, screaming with white noise. There’s so much of it, in fact, that it’s almost like a brewing thunderstorm; the air is literally _charged_ with static. A warning of the rage that is beginning to show itself; anger flashes across your face as you seethe.
> 
> “That miserable hag! That old bat! That wizened toad! She _dares_ to get in my way when I’ve finally found him?! When I’ve finally found the one who is rightfully _mine_ after all this time?! The one who’s been mine from the start?! I want to kill her! I want to skin her alive! I want to roast her unsightly body over the infernal pit! I want to—!”
> 
> Movement in your peripheral vision makes you stop, flicking a glance at the wall as your shadow eyes you. You sneer, tilting your head as your old friend mimics your movements with disturbing ease; a terrifying echo of your grin curls its lips, though it betrays no annoyance. It only offers you callous amusement at the predicament you’ve found yourself in; nothing more, nothing less.
> 
>  ** _Patiencepatiencepatience._**  
>   
>  ** _Foundhimfoundhimfoundhim._**  
>   
>  ** _YOURSYOURSYOURS._**  
>   
>  It coos empty affection to you and you unconsciously lean into it, in your shadow’s non-corporeal arm as a few other, smaller shadows nuzzle your cheek, purring assurances that now that you’ve found him, you can work on earning your love’s trust in your ear. You hum, feeling the sudden shift of your full demon form beginning to subside as you revert, slowly, to your normal appearance.
> 
> “Yes,” you murmur, breathing in and out slowly, deeply. “Yes.” 
> 
> You indulge in your shadows’ company, focusing on calming yourself down. “This is merely a stalling tactic on that hag’s part. She can’t keep my Alistair from me forever. I won’t allow her to do that; he’s already _mine_ after all, no matter if she likes it or not. I just need to convince him I’m not a threat.”
> 
> As you talk, your shadows continue to whisper soothingly in your ear, promising to assist you with this matter as they have aided you with every matter, be it mild or one of dire importance. You eye the tapestry on your left, smiling fondly as your gaze lands on one particular photograph.
> 
> A slightly younger, more human-looking you is all but hanging off of Alistair’s arm, beaming up at him for all you’re worth as he returns your grin, but with a softer one. Ah, your foolish love didn’t notice the hunger in your eyes. You had won his trust in the roaring 20’s with laughable ease… The memory of a certain night plays out in your mind like a reel of black and white movie film, making you grin wildly as you leer back at the mirror.
> 
> “Smile, my dear!” You tell your reflection; it copies your visage perfectly. “You know you’re never fully dressed without one~.”
> 
> You giggle, spinning on your heels as a portal appears in front of you. You step through it and your shadows eagerly follow you, knowing full well what you plan on doing to take your mind off of this minor setback. When you exit the portal, you step out onto a crowded street.
> 
> Many freeze in place, ogling you with terror in their eyes. The smart ones flee, bellowing out their fright all the while. You’ll hunt them down last. You hum a jazzy tune as you let your little shadows have their fun first. You watch them with a strange sense of pride as they attack, swirling around the first sinners they see. They’re swallowed in a maelstrom of darkness, beady little eyes gleaming as they descend on the screaming demons with claws.
> 
> “Let’s misbehave shall we, darling~?”
> 
> Your shadow answers your call for violence, for bloodshed with a hollow laugh.


End file.
